Follow the Butterflies
by wouldtheywriteasongforyou
Summary: "Everyone thinks they will live forever." — a Muggle!AU in which a girl with mud in her veins wishes for a miracle to save her life. Written for Colleen.


**Author's Note:  
Disclaimer: I hope your heart grows 10x bigger with love today like the Grinch's did. (Wait, wrong holiday.)**

Written for the HPFC Cinema Competition "Amelie"; Off the Block Competition "Butterfly Extra-Hard"; Journey Through Hogwarts Challenge "Part One: Diagon Alley (a. Amanuensis Quills)"; Duct Tape Competition "Green Zebra"; Your Favourite Hogwarts House Bootcamp [GRYFFINDOR] "27. contagious"; Gemstone Competition "Onyx"

This is a Fremione muggle!AU angst-y tragedy and the characterisations aren't completely canon-compliant, so if that doesn't float your boat please find another ship to sink.

14 February 2014. Word Count: 2,969

Lots of glitter, confetti, balloons, and kisses and hugs to the birthday girl Colleen (Sydrianfan4ever). AWOOOOO and happy birthday, love! xoxo Safari

**Some live more in one day than others do in their entire lifetime.  
**

* * *

**Follow the Butterflies**

[-]

i. gossamer wings.

She was in her chrysalis phase when she found out that she was trapped between two worlds with no escape. At eleven years of age, she was told that she was already half-way through with her life. Her predicted period of existence was as short and fragile as a butterfly's, and there was no way to change her fate or extend her lifespan.

The corners of her mind were too sharp and her colours too bright to camouflage into the monotonous world she lived in. Her blood was painted in scandalous shades of muddy brown and her wings blocked her into the shadows of traditional bigots with pure heritage. The world was too small and limited for Hermione Granger's brilliance, and there was no room for her.

The Healers explained that she probably wouldn't live to see the summer of her eighteenth year. She was only a terrified pre-teen, though, and was used to believing that she was invincible. Hermione Granger convinced herself that the Healers were wrong and that she _would_ be part of the percentage that vanquished the internal darkness preying off its victim's blood.

(Everyone thinks they will live forever.)

ii. painted lady.

She tried to be normal and blend in but still, everyone could tell there was something not quite right with her genetic makeup. On the outside she was pretty and perfect, but the thin veneer slowly began to crack as the years went by. The sweet and simple façade she showcased was a personality she painted on herself to hide the fact that she was an imitation of a masterpiece.

With each new sunrise and sunset, another puzzle piece fell away from her once-complete jigsaw soul. Hermione had always been made up of fragments but now her brokenness was slowly being revealed in the hazy light of the shadows.

iii. foolish swift.

The Healers called it _leukaemia_. Her therapist said it was _cancer_. Hermione categorised it as dirty mud in her blood that was polluting her from the inside out. She considered herself a _Mudblood_ because of her blood disease but her therapist said it was degrading and self-harming to be putting such ugly connotations on a word she used to describe herself with. It was sweet that her therapist wanted Hermione to only think positive thoughts but Hermione was _dying_ with every passing second, and she did not care to spend the remainder of her life creating an affirmative or bolstering her self-image.

_There's nothing we can do,_ the Healers told her when she was eleven. Now she was fourteen, and their answer still had not changed. _We're sorry, Miss Granger. Some survive with extensive treatment but your medical history suggests that you will not respond well to chemotherapy or radiation treatments. The leukaemia you have is a rare case that shows similar signs of a blood parasite. It is getting stronger over time as your body weakens. We think you have until your seventeenth birthday, now._

Hermione's therapist, Tonks-And-Don't-You-Dare-Call-Me-By-My-First-Name, suggested that Hermione start a journal._ Perhaps it will help you with venting your emotions,_ Tonks said encouragingly and gifted her with a blank composition book during one of Hermione's sessions.

That day, Hermione 'accidentally' left the journal behind on the therapist's couch.

iv. swallowtail.

- _She's contagious. –_

_- Don't sit by her, Lavender. You'll catch her disease. –_

_- Hey, do you want to be partners for the History assign- . . . oh. It's you. –_

_- Wanna play Kick the Bucket? Oops. We didn't mean it like that. –_

_- She's a nightmare honestly! It's no wonder she hasn't got any friends!_ –

_- What's her name? That girl sitting in the back of the room. Is she new? –_

_- Don't be silly, Parvati. We've been going to school with her since Year One. –_

_- But what's her name? –_

_- I don't think she has a name. She's always been the Mudblood. –_

_- Ugh, could a person look any more ratchet? Seriously, you'd think she'd at least paint her nails or comb her hair before coming to school. – _

_- Shut up, Pansy. She has cancer. –_

_- What a freak. –_

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"May I go to the washroom, Ms. McGonagall?"

"If you must."

She's only a naive fifteen-year-old, and in spite of everything, so young and fragilely vulnerable. Before this incident, she had not realised how mean people could be. Hermione was still able to hear their whispered venomous hisses even as she fled the classroom she had once considered her safe haven.

v. silver-studded blue.

"Are you all right?"

Hermione froze upon hearing the cadence of the girl's wispy voice. "I'm fine. Quite fine, thank you."

The girl with waxing gibbous eyes and pearly crescent nails smiled serenely. "I don't think you are," she stated softly. "You wouldn't be crying in the girls' lavatory if you were fine. But it's okay, I see that the Wrackspurts have gotten you. Hold still. I think I can get rid of them for you."

"I - what?"

The girl had a look of utmost seriousness and concentration etched upon her face. "Wrackspurts. They make your brain go fuzzy."

"They don't exist." Through her tear-stained eyes, Hermione realised that this girl with the moonbeam hair was Luna Lovegood, unaffectionately known as "Loony" Lovegood throughout school. But Hermione didn't dare think of herself as superior: she was just as much of a human mistake as Luna.

"There are plenty of eye-witness accounts. Just because you're so narrow-minded you need to have everything shoved under your nose..."

"Er, sorry," Hermione hastily said. Luna was the first person to be kind to her in a long while, and she did not want to jeopardise this encounter by being provincial. She then furrowed her brow. "Have we spoken with one another before?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Why now?"

"There were Wrackspurts in your mind," Luna responded as if the answer were obvious. "Don't worry; they're all gone now."

vi. comma.

"I would like to try journal-writing."

_Oh? _The composition book was retrieved and then slid over to the girl with death shadowing her once-vibrant eyes. _What made you change your mind?_

_Hermione?_

_All right, then. Why don't you spend the rest of this session writing? It's very important that you keep your writing organic and natural, so I don't want to restrict you physically or mentally with this exercise. If you wish to escape the confines of my room, there's a lake at the back of St. Mungo's – take a left at the first exit after the lift and go through the double-doors on the right._

"Will you be reading what I write?"

Tonks shook her head. _Your personal thoughts are private to the world, and writing them down should not change that fact._

"Thank you." Hermione got up and left her therapist's office. She followed Tonks' directions and ended up at the lake. She'd never visited this part of the hospital grounds before, and it was nice to see a macrobiotic ecosystem in this other-wise artificial medical environment.

The sun peeked through the winter-grey blanket of clouds. The light warmed her resigned heart, and for a moment, Hermione felt like her wings would have the strength to carry her away with the breeze. But then the sun disappeared like dewdrops on morning grass, the moment passed, and she chided herself for wanting to be burned by flying so close to an open flame.

_Everyone thinks they will live forever_, was the first thought she tattooed into the parchment skin of her journal.

vii. false dotted border.

Hermione did not mind her sessions with Tonks now that she had a journal to coax her deeper secrets into. Tonks seemed to understand that Hermione wished for quiet solitude for the remainder of her life, but still, the therapist tried to radiate happiness and positivity for the dying girl's sake.

_Your sixteenth birthday is coming up_, Tonks noted with a smile. _Are your parents or friends going to do anything special for you?_

_I don't have any friends, _Hermione responded_. Maybe Luna will give me a pair of radish earrings like the one she wears but I'm not expecting much. My parents will buy me a cake and take a bunch of selfies and sing Happy Birthday in an obnoxiously off-key voice. _

_Is that a tradition?_

Hermione smiled a little._ It is, _she said with a bit of nostalgia.

_It's important that you keep up with your daily traditions and do not dwell too much on the future. Carpe diem, and all that. _

Hermione did not respond, for now that Tonks had mentioned it, she was thinking about her inevitable death once again._ I would like to write in my journal but I seem to have misplaced it during my last session. Have you seen it?_

Tonks shook her head._ Did you try the lake? I believe you were over in that general vicinity._

_I'll go look there now. Thank you._ Hermione left the therapist's room and hurried down to the lake. During the past six months that she had written in the journal, it had become important to her and was her lifeline and sanctuary. She couldn't bear to think of it as being truly lost.

The lake was vacant save for a few swans gliding across the water mirroring the clouds in the summer sky. Hermione headed to her usual spot underneath the willow tree and searched anxiously in the grass for the marbled cover of her journal.

_whereisitwhereisitIcan'tfinditnoitcan'tbelostwhereisitwhereisit – there!_

She snatched up the journal – now a little earth-worn and battered by the elements – and hugged it tightly to her chest. Then she sat down in the summer knotgrass and leafed through the pages to make sure it actually was hers.

Hermione smiled at the first sentence she had written all those months ago. _Everyone thinks they will live forever._ Oh, what a philosophical adolescent she had been. But wait – what was that spiky little smudge above her rounded scrawl? She leaned in closer and read: **Some live more in one day than others do in their entire lifetime**_._ That wasn't her handwriting, though. Someone else had obviously picked up her journal, written their commentary, and then put the journal back where they found it. Hermione wasn't sure if she should be mad at the invasion of privacy or not.

She flipped through the other entries, curious to see if Ronald (she didn't know the person's name but he sounded like a Ronald) had left her any other notes.

viii. marbled white.

It seems to be that Ronald had indeed looked through her entire journal. He – Hermione did not know his gender either but she fancied him as a he – had apologized profusely for 'vandalising' her personal property but he said her thoughts were so magnetic that he couldn't help but respond back. (All right, so Ronald also sounded like a kiss-ass but Hermione forgave him, nevertheless.)

She was back at home, now, and it was dark out. By the light of the stars and the moon, she discovered that Ronald was quite introspective and blunt. After reading his annotations, Hermione understood what he meant by a 'magnetic personality' because she found that she was drawn to his mind and thoughts. She thumbed through the passages and began to re-read her personal favourite quotes of his:

_I am afraid of the unknown. I've been dying for quite a while but death . . . it's just so final. – _**You're never truly dead, though. Physically, yes, but your spirit will live on in the memories of the lives you've touched.**

_My parents are starting to forget me. I feel as if they are preparing for when I am gone so that my absence from their lives will not hurt them as much. _– **My mother has seven children and yet she manages to smother each and every one of us equally. She calls us her Seven Dwarves. I think perhaps she loves us *too* much because it seems as if she'll never let us go or live our own lives.**

_I've forgotten how to be happy. – _**I've forgotten how to laugh.**

_Sometimes I think I can remember how life used to be before the leukaemia muddied my veins. I lived each day blissfully unaware back then. _– **You deserve to be happy *now*, enjoying each inhale and exhale and star-gazing and thinking about what if's and viewing the world with open eyes. You should also break the rules, create some mischief, and eat some chocolate. I hear it helps banish away the negativity.**

Hermione laughed at that last comment. She wasn't a rule-breaker, and it was a preposterous notion that Ronald thought so.

_Thank you_, she wrote and purposefully left her journal back under the willow tree during her next therapy session.

**You're welcome**, Ronald wrote back.

ix. infuriating pathfinder.

The mud in her blood was getting stronger. Hermione found herself making more and more trips to St. Mungo's until the Healers finally told her that she would be placed on bed rest until . . . well. They were hesitant and wary about speaking of her death but Hermione had always known it was coming. However, the leukaemia seemed to be fighting to take her life sooner than expected.

She had a window view of the lake from her hospital bed, and she found herself looking out there as she searched for Ronald underneath their willow tree. She had left their journal down there the day before she had been put on bed rest. The lake and her journal had become an important part of her life and she missed the small happiness she had found in communicating with Ronald.

Eventually, the Healers gave Hermione small doses of chemotherapy in a futile attempt to stop the leukaemia from its accelerated attack on her blood cells. Conversely, all the chemicals did was decrease her appetite and the rate of which her hair and nails grew. Soon, Hermione was a skeleton of the girl she had once been, and it wouldn't be long until her body could no longer house her disintegrating soul.

x. duke of burgundy.

Few visited 221B or the girl fading inside the room. Only her parents, the Healers and Luna popped by. Luna came and brought her eccentric positivity and mindless daydreaming. Hermione appreciated her company and wanted to tell the girl _thank you_ for all the friendship she had so freely given ever since that day in the washroom but Hermione's vocal chords seized up and would not work until after Luna had left. Hermione's parents also visited as did the Healers but they were all so clinical and precise with everything they had to say. Hermione could see that she was simply a waste of space to them and easily disposable. She bet that they were counting down the days until they no longer had to worry about her existence anymore.

A ginger-haired bloke who looked about her age entered her hospital room with a familiar composition notebook tucked in the crook of his left arm. "And so we meet," he said with a small smile.

"Ronald?" she asked since it was the first thing that came to mind. The man was a stranger to her but if it were indeed Ronald, she trusted him completely.

He shook his head. "No, I'm Fred. I've been the one you've been corresponding with. I believe this journal is yours."

"You mean it's ours," Hermione corrected him, her Fred-not-Ronald. "You've written in it as much as I have."

"All right," Fred acquiesced not because she was dying but because he knew from writing with her that she liked to be told that she was right. "Ours."

"What are doing here, Fred?" she asked, curious as to why she was just now meeting him.

"My twin is deaf in one ear," Fred explained. "The Healer recommended a Cochlear implant but something went wrong during the surgical procedure. They said he will probably lose his ear. I am just - so - _angry_ and I thought it would help to vent in the journal but then I remembered you stopped writing. I thought I would come find you. I don't know, it's probably dumb of me to have sought you out, isn't it? I should go." During his nervous rambling explanation, he had succeeded in convincing himself of an opinion she had not voiced.

"No!" Hermione yelled and feebly scrambled to get up as if that would make him stay. "No, you can't! Please don't go away. Please? No one's ever stuck with me for so long before. And if you leave . . . if you leave . . . I just, I remember things better with you! I really do. Sunshine . . . daisies . . . butter mellow . . . I remember it, I do. It's there – I know it is – because when I look at you, I can feel it. And . . . and I look at you and I'm alive again. Please, I don't want that to go away. I don't want to forget."

Fred was stricken by her sudden display of emotion but he stayed. "I don't even know your name," he said apologetically.

She smiled in relief at his promise to stay and closed her eyes as she let her weak heartbeat return to its normal faltering pace. "Hermione," she whispered back.

Later, a Healer came into room 221 B and checked Hermione Granger's vitals. _I'm sorry_, he told Fred quietly so as to not disturb the girl with leukaemia poisoning her veins. _But she doesn't have much longer left._

xi. elegant paradise skipper.

She was just a seventeen year old girl who thought she could preserve herself in her little cocoon world. Unfortunately, fate had other plans for her.

**Do you believe in miracles?** the red-headed boy with star-speckled freckles asked in their shared notebook.

She had enough strength to write her final sentence: _Not today._

[-]


End file.
